Nosy Be, Madagascar

March 24, 2025

"I don't make myself sad. I don't make anyone else sad. If I have nothing to give, I give with my heart." ~ Wilfrid, our guide for the Village of Dzamandzar, Nosy Be (pronounced "No-see Bay. Don't ask me how to pronounce the village name)

We tied up opposite the town of Andoany (formerly known as "Hell-Ville") at about 8 in the morning. Our excursion didn't leave for the island by tender until after lunch. I wish we could've gotten earlier excursions, but it hasn't worked out that way for us this time. It's still as hot as our equatorial ports of call, but we are farther south from that imaginary line now. 

I wish we'd taken a longer excursion so we could've seen some of the island's famous lemurs and other wildlife, but those options were sold out by the time we were allowed to book something. So instead, we were going to be visiting a village, sort of like the recreated homes of different tribes we saw in Kenya, I thought. It was touted as a cultural look at a market with artisanal crafts. 

There is a thin line between tourism and voyeurism. This excursion dragged me across that line. It became immediately obvious that we weren't in a village. We'd been invited to take a walk through a slum, as if the people who live and work there were a source of entertainment. I felt like I was invading their space. 

I'm not naive. I know poverty is as endemic here in Madagascar as lemurs. The average person lives on the equivalent of $2.00 a day. If you want to eat beef, you'll likely splurge on a cow shin with the hoof still attached. Fish of dubious freshness was offered for sale. Other meat of unknown provenance was being ground up in open air that swarmed with flies. Beans of several different types were probably the most wholesome looking thing available. (But I schooled my face into "no expression." Food is food in this part of the world and not to be derided.)  There's no running water, no electricity, no windowpanes in the shanties. Some had no doors. 

When I asked why there were so many children running about the muddy streets on a school day, our guide told us that parents must pay for their children to attend school--even public school. However, they could be worse off. 50% of the workers down in the mines of gems and other precious metals with which the island is blessed, are women or children between the ages of 5 and 12.

The trouble, according to our onboard lecturers, can be laid at the feet of governmental corruption and mismanagement of resources. The mainland of Madagascar, which we did not see, could be an eco-tourism paradise but the government is selling off the rainforest at an alarming rate. (Random fact: When you think of the island of Madagascar, think of an island that would stretch from Savannah, Georgia to the Great Lakes.) But the natural wealth of the country is not being used to benefit its citizens. 

When I asked what sort of jobs were available, our guide had trouble with the question. He just said everybody works, but not at something with a guaranteed paycheck. Things we would consider a "side hustle" are their main source of support. He's happy if he gets a chance to be a guide a couple of times a week. 

But even with all that, we didn't see anyone begging, like we did in Mombasa. 

Other than my dismay at the seemingly insurmountable problems the island's residence face, I realized there was something else niggling at me. There was a personal reason why I was offended on their behalf by having a bunch of weird tourists trapsing through their neighborhood. 

As usual, if a feeling borders on "hysterical," it's likely "historical."

Poverty is highly subjective in the USA. My mom was raised in a farmhouse with no running water. In fact, I remember as a child how excited everyone was when my grandparents finally got an inside bathroom. But they didn't feel poor. It was how things were back then. 

When I was a kid, I'd have to describe us as lower middle class. My parents rented the house where we lived, but mom planted flowers around it as if it was her own. She made all our clothes. She took empty cereal boxes and cut out little "horses," that looked more like donkey's,  for my sister and me to play with. I thought she was the cleverest mom on the planet. When skateboards became popular, my dad took two-by-fours, cut them to the appropriate length and attached a skate (the kind you used to attach to your shoes, so it extended long enough to come completely apart.) to the bottom of the boards. We were tickled to pieces, and developed incredible balance with them! 

We didn't feel poor.    

Later, my parents were able to buy a house and we moved. When I was a teenager, we attended a church which in retrospect was more of a country club than a worship fellowship. One Sunday, our class was loaded up into a van and we were taken on a tour of "less advantaged neighborhoods."  

We drove past the house my family used to live in. 

"Oh, dear." "How sad." "You'd think they could do better." The people in the van didn't have an idea of how to help "the less fortunate." I didn't even hear that they wished they could. 

I wanted to scream.  

As we walked through Dzamandzar, that old memory bubbled up in my mind. Along with all the feelings that came with it. And here I was, this time in the role of those other folks in the van "tut-tutting" and feeling hopeless without a clue about what I should do about what I was seeing.

I don't mean to equate my less-than-affluent upbringing with the grinding poverty we saw in Madagascar. There's really no comparison. But the children who smiled at us and "fist-bumped" with me were clean and didn't look malnourished. Like my sisters and me, they have no idea they are "disadvantaged." Love and family counts for more than a lot of the things we tend to think are important. 

But the difference is that their future is not as full of promise as mine was. There doesn't seem to be a structure in their society that allows them to better their lot. The lack of free public education stands out starkly to me. 

However, we are long past the old imperialism that made European powers think they could transplant their culture everywhere in the world. I'm still not sure what, if anything, I can do. 

But I will think of those children, and look for something...

~~~

CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE ANIMALIA KIND!

I didn't see any of Madagascar's famous animals, but I did meet one of its non-human residents. On our way back to the ship, I felt something under my pant leg brush against my calf. I dismissed it at first, thinking I'd imagined it, but then I felt it again, this time up near my knee. I grabbed the moving bump between two fingers and yanked up my pant leg to pull it out with my other hand. Then I dropped it on the van floor between my feet.

It was a small lizard, about 2 1/2 - 3 inches long, tail and all. It must have been a chameleon because it was the exact shade of beige as my pants!   

It wasn't moving and I was afraid I had squeezed it too hard and killed it. So I took a tissue from my pocket to pick it up. When it saw the white thing coming toward it, it sprang to life, skittered away and disappeared into a hole under the dash. 

Some of the other ladies in the van said they were surprised I didn't scream. 

I used to tell my daughters, "No screaming... unless the house is on fire or there's blood. Lots of blood." 

However, if I'd pulled something out of my pants that had more than four legs, I'd still be screaming. (What a bundle of contradictions and discrepancies I am!)